WARHAMMER 40,000: A Thousand Tiny Suns (40k/Exalted Crossover!)

You kept your hand down and quivered slightly. But you were a medic. Not a courier. It'd be...wrong to try and cleanse yourself of sin anyway short of death. Your eyes flicked beneath your gas-mask to 55-95, but he was just ducking his head, nodding to something only he could hear. You sighed, feeling the counterpressure, and slid your finger along the wrist of your glove.

The platoon mounted up and divided into squads. Your sergeant, 39-40, and the rest of your ten man squad were precisely where you had waited. None of the others talked to you - but they did talk to one another.

"Did you know that they were trying to get into the bunker right up to when the sky fell?" 12-12 was saying, her voice incredulous. "Why?"

"Wait, the civilians?" 8-81 asked, shifting his lances in his container.

"Yeah," 12-12 said.

"The civilians were trying to get into the bunker? Were they on the approved list?" 8-81 asked.

"No, that's the thing that got me so confused," 12-12 said. "I wasn't on guard duty. But I saw three of those Cadians came back and one of them shot herself. So, maybe there was a mixup?"

"She shot herself?" 7-7 piped in.

You slung your saddle over Gitta's back, wishing you could join in - you had a theory about the strange events, but...

"I didn't think Cadians would be so wasteful." 7-7 said, shaking her head. "Wait, maybe it was an execution - but she was a skilled soldier, so they let her take her own life? As...a reward? Like 01-01."

You all considered that. The legendary 01-01, the first true Kriger. There were so many stories about him that they had to be confabulations, or assigned from other Kriegers. But since being famous was...in and of itself, something you had to shy away from - even if everyone wanted to do things that would make you famous - it really worked to have 01-01. What better honor, to do something so grand that 01-01 did it when the next crop rose from Krieg and were marched to war? The idea made you happy. Then it made you want to snap your wrist again. Since when had 01-01 bandaged a wound or injected a...a...an antibiotic unguent?

"Maybe-" you started. "Maybe the-"

"No, she seemed...upset, like she hadn't gotten to die," 12-12 said, looking at 7-7 and 8-81, over your head. You started to scramble into your saddle.

"Do you think the civilians wanted to get in...despite not being on the approved list?" 8-81 asked, his voice just a bit nervous.

12-12, 7-7, 8-81 and even 55-95 all stood very still at that moment.

You had the insane urge to say: Well, yeah, I know how they felt.

You couldn't take it, at times like this, being...you. It was easier during flights, when there were other corpsman, or when you were on the navy. Everyone there was awash in sin, you could pray and do penance together! But here, you were alone - and you wanted to fling yourself at the others, and scrabble at them until they...they...they just...

You snapped your glove, once, twice, three times.

"No, this world hadn't fallen to heresy," 12-12 said, shaking her head.

"It must have been a mixup," 7-7 said, nodding. "And that's why the Cadian was executed. She messed something up."

"That does make sense," 8-81 said, his voice somber. "Well, at least she gave her life for her fellows - that kind of thing keeps everyone more in line. More focused."

The rest of the fire team nodded, while the other half of the squad rode up and shifted into positions, the claws of their mounts scraping on metal. Sergeant 39-40's mount, Trudy, reared up and kicked her forelegs, then settled down as 39-40 looked at the lot of you. "Why is it that the only one of you that's on her mount is the damned medic?" he snapped.

The others didn't apologize, but they did flinch and scramble up onto their horses.

You settled into place - beside 7-7 and slightly ahead of 55-95. You had the badge of shame on - the bright white and red armband that marked you as a medic - and as you settled, Gitta turned and restively bumped her head against 7-7's mount, Otto. Otto let out a muffled snort and click, and 7-7 snapped her head around. "Keep your beast under control, medic," she snapped.

"Leave her alone," 12-12 said, her voice firm.

You felt a strange twinge in your chest.

"But she-"

"No one chooses to be a medic, nor lancer, nor officer," 12-12 said, firmly. "Even 01-01 didn't choose his fate. The only people who choose, who can choose, are the dead and the Emperor. There's no...special sauce that makes you a medic. It's all what the cogitation machines spit out when you reach your designation day. To think that she's worse than you because she was given a medic designation? That's the first step on thinking you are special because you got assigned a lancer's place."

7-7 was quiet.

12-12 was so wise. You ducked your head a bit. You didn't deserve those words.

Every Kriger was born the same, and they all wished to die the same...but...

The klaxon alert rang out and the door started to truly move. It swung down with a ponderous slowness, wide enough, large enough, that the entire regiment could ride across it. The smeary, orange-brown sunlight, filtered through pals of smoke, started to spill in, transforming the comforting sterility of the white lights within the bunker into something dreadful. Then the trumpets began to flare, the flags lifted, and the first line of cavalry rode out - their mounts climbing the ramp up with ease, then plunging down into the debris and rubble. Sergeant 39-40 lifted his chain saber and then wheeled off to the left, following his directions and objectives. You rode in formation, and for a moment your mood began to lift.

There was a glory, coming out of that bunker - a wave of brown and silver, of flashing sabers and lifted lances. The Word Bearer starship remained hovering in the distance - and artillery was beginning to bloom and thunder in the distance. Then the chaotic terrain that surrounded the bunker swept up, folding around you. Gitta leaped and surged under you and you clung to the reigns, leaning forward to press your own slender weight to her. The power between your thighs was intoxicating - and you wanted to whoop and cheer. But you kept your jaw tight and locked, and a wild intensity burned inside of you.

The Emperor was with you today! He was!

The Sergeant lifted one hand and slowed to a canter. Sounds of las-fire and crackling booms were echoing from up the line - other elements had made contact. But in this wild chaos, there was no chances for a mass charge. So be it. You had been through the same basic training and knew in situations like this, rough riders were to split into small units, find targets of opportunity, strike, wheel away. It was a trench fight, but spread to vast scale by the speed of a mount and the sprawl of a planetary battlefield.

The Sargant's hand signs flashed: ten, ten, ten, infantry, two, armor.

The rumbling noise you had heard made sense now.

Sign flashed again: Fireteam one, armor, fireteam two, opening, me.

You nodded. Your fireteam was going to charge the tank, while Sergeant was going to lead the second to cut an opening. That meant you had to wait, nervously, as the second fireteam bunched around the Sergeant. 12-12 drew her lance - affixed as it was with a heavy, armor piercing explosive charge.

You reached down to grab your lance - but then a hand grabbed yours.

7-7 leaned in, her voice hissing. "Don't you have something important to do, medic?"

---
[ ] ...she's right. Keep ready to staunch wounds.
[ ] Draw your lance silently while glaring at her.
[ ] write in

You looked right into her goggles. "Are you wounded, 7-7?" you asked. "Do you wish to break off and receive treatment?"

Your lips were tight behind the mask.

7-7 watched you and you could read the tiny slump in her shoulders, the shifting of her position in her saddle. Even her horse, Lukas, could feel it - he pawed at the ground, leaving black furrows in earth. Then she looked away, muttering under her breath. "Merde!"

You breathed out, then whispered to 55-92. "Stick to me, just like we trained."

"Elan, yes. Boldness. Fearless. Bravery. Death." 55-92's voice had a faintly sing song edge to it.

You shifted in your saddle.

Then your Sergeant gave the word - a fierce jerk of his hand. The second fireteam rode forward, thundering over the ridge. You looked to 12-12, your fireteam leader. She waited a beat...then kneed her mount. You kneed Gitta and she leaped forward, with 55-92 sticking right to your flank. You tugged one of the lances out of your riding saddle, holding it under handed, your heart in your throat. You crested the ridge and saw that the battle was already a confused, chaotic mess. Sounds hammered into your ears, and sights seared across your goggles.

Lasbolts - illuminated by the smoke, drawing sizzling patterns through the air - streaked and slammed into the ridgeline you were clearing. You saw several hit the Sergeant, some hit 7-7, some hit 48-88, the man who rode beside 7-7. 7-7 twisted and squirmed, her armor hissing and bubbling, but her comrade staggered as his shoulder-pad exploded with a flare of red light. But still he rode on. The enemy were fanned around a heavy, snarling beast of a tank. It had a blunt turret on the roof, long and thin, and a pair of sponson mounted heavy bolters - it was like a Lemun Russ, but...wrong. May be it was perverted by Chaos? It was painted in Word Bearer colors, you could tell that much.

12-12, brave and resolute and skilled, charged forward, lance held overhanded. It was less important to add force to the blow, more important to get the target and then ride away. She thrust and the tip of her lance exploded against the side of the tank with a flash of orange light and spray of molten metal. She wheeled her mount away, and 7-7 came up as well - her lance thrusting home against the side of the turret. Both impacts scored the tank, leaving smoldering holes...but they didn't kill it. Instead, the tank started to back away, treads throwing up muck and mud and mire.

The heavy bolter swung around - and opened up with a hammering roar. 7-7's mount reared as explosions bloomed around her, but then you saw 12-12.

Her arm exploded in a spray of blood and bone.

She wobbled, her mask knocked slightly off. Then she fell off her mount and into the muck.

Your heart leaped in your throat. You expected to feel joy for her - that wound was fatal, your manuals said.

Instead, you just felt sick. You wanted to throw up, but you clenched back the bile.

The sergeant's mount leaped over 12-12's body, while her beast went running back to your lines, as had been trained. The sergeant thrust and his lance swept towards the tank, but it jinked suddenly, twisting to the side with a rumbling roar - and muck sprayed into his face from one of the treads. The sergeant waived off.

All this had taken the same time it took for you to clear the ridge.

The tank loomed, so large. And there were so many heretics - and they wore such oddly familiar clothes. Tattered civilian rags, in cuts and styles you had seen weeks, months before, in gardens, as you had tried to follow your Comissar's order to take a walk and relax a little. They glared at you with hatred.

What had Chaos promised them?

You didn't know. You couldn't understand.

12-12 was dead.

---
What do you do?

[ ] Charge the tank's side.
[ ] try and wheel around and come at it from behind.
[ ] Go for 44-88, he was wounded and, unlike 12-12, can be saved
[ ] Run. Why are you here? What are you doing here!?
[ ] Write In